A Room on Lorelei Street - Page 2

I can’t. Not anymore. Not one more sentence, one more word, one more breath, or I will explode. I will die. It’s been said before. All of it. Again and again. Not one more word. Not one.

She dries the glass swirling the towel over and over, around and around, till it squeaks, pleading for a breath, and then she dries it again. “I can’t,” she whispers, so lightly the sound is lost behind the humming refrigerator and the squeaking of the dry glass.

“Sugar?”

She stops drying and slips the glass back into the soapy bubbles. “Coming, Mama.”

Mama talks, and she listens. There is no explosion, no suffocating, no dying—just listening and listening to stories and retellings she has memorized. She adds a word here and there, because Mama needs her to.

“Mama, it will be okay.”

“Mama, that was in the past.”

“Mama, don’t cry.”

Mama. Mama. Mama. It’s always about Mama.

She glances at her watch. Her shift at the diner starts in an hour.

Mama finally remembers. “Oh. Today was your first day. How did it go?”

She looks at Mama’s hand curled around her own. It is warm and soft. “I got the classes I wanted. Not all the teachers, but I did get the classes. Sixth-period P.E., too, so I can go straight to tennis.”

“You’re taking tennis?”

“After school, Mama. I’m on the team. I already told you.” She’s been on the team for two years. Mama has never seen her play.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” Mama begins to drift, her eyes half closed.

There is more about her day that Mama should know. Should she tell? A smile plays behind her eyes, comes nowhere near her mouth—the pretense is there again—Mama still signs the notes, is still on the parent information card at school.

“There is one other thing. You might be getting a phone call—from the principal.”

Mama’s eyes open. “On the first day, sugar?”

She sees the clarity she yearns for.

“It was a cussword, Mama. Just one little cussword that slipped out before I knew it. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Is that all? One little word? Don’t worry. I’ll talk to the principal. He’ll forget all about it.” Mama rolls to her side and closes her eyes.

She thinks about fifth period. American Lit. The principal won’t forget. She tries to remember exactly how it happened. Was it the afternoon sun? The rising temperature and overcrowded classroom? Going without a cigarette all day? Or was it the way Mrs. Garrett looked too much like Grandma when she tilted her head? Too much like Grandma when she looked down her nose over half glasses while calling roll but never once bothering to look into a single face in the classroom? Or maybe it was the muffled laughter that rolled through the room when Mrs. Garrett called her name….

“Zo?” Mrs. Garrett calls.

A sprinkling of laughter. And then, like it amuses her, like an encore performance, Mrs. Garrett calls again. Slowly this time, louder, so she owns the name. “Zo?”

It isn’t exactly a snap. More like a simmer with steadily increasing heat.

“Zoe,” she corrects.

And then the simmer grows hotter and she stands.

“Zz—o—eeee.”

A nervous, hushed titter runs through the classroom.

“Zo—eeeee,” she says again, to be sure she is clear. She has to be clear. “Got it?” she finally asks.

Tags: Mary E. Pearson
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